May 11, 2011
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He sits at his desk,
Eating and reading,
Bored with the world.

His lacy eyeballs,
Lined with red,
Move from page to page.

The clock dings,
It is now three,
Just another hour of the day,

His lunch,
A coleslaw serenade,
It irritates him.

His conniving fish
Swishing, spying, and sleeping,
Planning her escape from
Her bowl.

The door bell echoes in his empty house,
He knows the slimy, sleazy press are here,
He glances around the room?
Admiring his last piece
Of boredom for the day.

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